


Good Work

by spqr



Series: dinluke lawyer au [2]
Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Kid Fic, M/M, ManDadlorian, Married Sex, No Plot/Plotless, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29647161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spqr/pseuds/spqr
Summary: It’s a pair of pink booty shorts. The ass reads, JUICY, ESQ.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Series: dinluke lawyer au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174595
Comments: 44
Kudos: 637





	Good Work

Luke’s last night on the lobster shift, all the guys get together and throw him a ‘Fuck You’ party.

Technically, in function, it’s a going away party, but in spirit Biggs and Wedge are ticked off Luke got a transfer approval when he’s only a second year and Bodhi was grateful and excited to be given the opportunity to request profanity on the cake at the supermarket, so it’s a ‘Fuck You’ party. They bring out the cake right near the end of their shift, when the sun’s peeking up outside and the first tentative motions of rush hour are starting to clog the streets around 100 Centre, and Luke turns bright red and makes _aw, shucks_ noises right up until Bodhi gets a handful of icing and smashes it on his chin, at which point things become a little less civilized.

Jyn shows up early to her shift to shamelessly pilfer a slice of cake, and Leia stops in on her way to work to, quote, her words, _congratulate him on finally reaping the benefits of marriage_ , which are apparently limited to preferential day shift placement. Wedge tries to propose to Biggs in the name of shared self-interest and defrauding ‘the man’ at the exact moment that Cassian Andor arrives in the doorway, takes one look at the scene in the cramped Legal Aid office — Wedge down on one knee, Luke still with icing on his tie, Jyn helping Bodhi tack up a banner that says, SEE YOU NEVER, SKYWALKER — and promptly turns on his heel.

When everything is winding down, Jyn gone down to the tombs to start working her way through the morning’s docket, Leia off to referee bigger and better corporate squabbles, Wedge pulls a gift box out of his desk drawer. “From all of us,” he says, and hands it over.

Luke takes it, suddenly feeling choked up. They’re all sitting around Wedge’s desk, all the furniture in the office rearranged for this purpose, for coming together in a little bundle. Luke never thought he’d be sad, leaving the lobster shift, because up until now he’s mostly thought of it as leaving behind the shitty hours and the sleep deprivation. But that’s not all he’s leaving, is it? For a year now, he’s been in the trenches with these guys — just the four of them, wading through paperwork and plea bargains in the pitch dark middle of the night, subsisting on a diet of vending machine coffee and sarcasm. In an odd way, he feels like they’ve become his brothers in arms. Fellow cave-creatures. And now Luke’s about to emerge out of the deep dark underworld and into the light, and it feels wrong that he won’t be taking them with him, no matter how eager he is to finally sync his sleep schedule up with his husband’s.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he says, because that’s what people say.

Bodhi snorts — he’s always had a terrible poker face.

Biggs glowers at him, then turns back to Luke with an innocent expression and says, “Don’t be silly, kid, of course we got you something. Go ahead — open it.”

Luke squints, suspicious. “Is this another glitter bomb?”

Biggs puts a hand over his heart, wounded. “Would we do that to you, Luke? Today of all days?”

Luke squints harder, but he figures they’re sitting too close for it to be a glitter bomb, so he goes ahead and opens the box.

It’s a pair of pink booty shorts. The ass reads, _JUICY, ESQ._

“Very funny,” Luke says, or tries to say, since the other three are laughing too hard to hear him. “Ha ha, really, you’re hilarious. I’m dying of laughter, guys. So, so funny.”

Biggs and Wedge attempt to bully him into putting on the shorts, which works, and then attempt to bully him into doing a fake strip tease on Cassian’s desk so they can get a photo, which also works, and then attempt to bully him into letting them print the photo and hang it on the mini fridge, which doesn’t work because Luke comes to his senses, commandeers the phone, and deletes the evidence.

“That’s a Brady violation!” Wedge accuses.

Luke shimmies back into his pants. “I think you oughta go back to law school, buddy.”

He makes his escape while Wedge is still wailing about injustice and Biggs is coaching Bodhi to try and remember his cloud password — Bodhi’s a passable lawyer, but he smokes a lot of pot and he can’t usually remember what he had for breakfast, so Luke figures he’s safe.

The subway ride to the new apartment is a lot shorter than the old one, and Luke’s there in twenty minutes, taking the steps two at a time up onto the stoop. He and Din had a hell of a time finding a two-bedroom in Manhattan that wasn’t either wildly outside their price range or suffering from some kind of infestation, but in the end they’d been rescued by a kindly old gay couple — Baze and Chirrut — who were about to head to Thailand on some sort of spiritual soul-searching journey and were looking for subletters to take the place indefinitely. Since Chirrut wouldn’t rent to anyone who didn’t ‘have the right energy’ and Baze wouldn’t overrule his husband on anything, ever, Din and Luke had been able to get the place dirt cheap — or what amounted to dirt cheap in New York, anyways.

Their apartment isn’t much bigger than Luke’s old place was, in terms of square footage, but it’s got two bedrooms, which is an amenity he and Din had realized they needed pretty quickly after all that divorce paper drama. There is, admittedly, a lot that can be done in hallways and on kitchen counters and tumbled onto the floor beside couches, but having to tiptoe into the bathroom to deal with their morning wood got old after the first few times — no matter how much Luke enjoyed having his husband, wet and warm and still languid with sleep, hold the back of his knee and press into him in the shower — and so they had decided, unanimous, with barely a discussion, to kick their son out into his own room.

Grogu, instead of being despondent and inconsolable about it like Luke had worried he would be, took to his newfound semi-freedom like a pig to mud. He still wasn’t talking, but they’d held up a color wheel in front of him and let him choose the color of the walls (frog-colored), the color of his bedding (frog-colored), and his own nightlight (frog). The first night they left him alone, he managed to get out of his crib, find a box of crayons in a box they hadn’t yet unpacked, and scribble all over the new coat of paint; they’d debated buying a more sensitive baby monitor, but had decided in the end that they’d probably just been exceptionally tired (Luke exceptionally well-fucked, Din exceptionally exhausted by his exceptional good work), and that the incident probably wouldn’t repeat itself.

It did repeat itself; now there’s a motion-sensing monitor on Luke’s bedside table.

Though it’s still pretty early in the morning, July has been a sweltering monster of a month, and by the time Luke makes it up the six flights of stairs — yeah, it’s a walk-up, but no apartment is perfect, it’s good exercise, etc. — to 6R, he’s lost his suit jacket and his tie and is seriously thinking about losing his shirt. He refrains, though, out of good breeding and consideration for the neighbors.

In the entryway, dropping his keys in the bowl, he calls, “Din?”

It’s quiet — quiet enough that Luke suspects his husband pawned their baby off on Poe, the twelve-year-old down in 5F. But there’s a wonderful smell coming from the kitchen, so Luke follows his nose.

Most of their stuff is still in boxes, stacked in the living room and the hallways, but Din must have liberated some of their pots and pans, because he’s swearing at something cooking on the stove, holding a wooden spoon.

Luke leans in the doorway. “Hey.”

Din looks over with a sheepish smile. “I was going to cook you dinner, but dinner seems to disagree.”

“That’s okay.” Luke comes across the kitchen, slides his arms around Din’s waist, tucks his face into the crook of Din’s neck. “I don’t really want dinner.”

“Really,” Din says, with a hint of slyness. “What do you want?”

Luke’s hands slide over Din’s stomach, down to his waistband. “Where’s the kid?”

“Terrorizing Poe.”

“Well then.” Luke bites the soft skin behind Din’s jaw, just under his ear. “I think you know what I want.”

“Mm, I’m not sure,” Din teases, even as he tilts his head to allow Luke better access. “You should really use your words, Luke.”

“Okay.” Luke grabs Din’s cock through his jeans. “How’s that?”

Din exhales hard, twitching into Luke’s grip. It’s still just as heady as it was the first time, feeling this big man shudder in his arms, under his touch — headier, even, because this is Luke’s _husband,_ and he knows exactly where to press to make Din melt into a puddle of very, very sexy goo.

“That’s good,” Din says, and swallows. “Yeah, that’s really — “

He turns in Luke’s grip and kisses him, backing him up against the refridgerator. Alphabet magnets go clattering to the floor. A crayon drawing crumples behind Luke’s shoulder, until they shuffle over and Din lifts him onto the countertop, stepping fast between his legs.

Luke wonders sometimes, usually in the sweaty golden afterglow, if he’s every going to stop feeling this _hungry_ for Din, if this is just some sort of delayed-release honeymoon period, but in the hot blooded core of his heart he knows that it isn’t, that he won’t. He knows that he’ll always be starving for Din’s hands and mouth and cock, because they’re attached to someone who knows what he’s afraid of, knows what he looks like when worrying keeps him awake in the middle of the night, knows that he’s awful and mean when he has a head cold and loves him anyways. And he thinks that this sort of hunger will probably get quieter, easier, less consuming — it already has, since those first frenzied days of their real marriage, when they were both so stuffed full of happiness that it came out in alarming spurts, heated arguments and periods of intense, hurried sex — but it will never go away. This kind of love doesn’t go away.

Din rumbles into Luke’s mouth, almost a growl, as Luke wraps his legs around his waist. His hands are spread hugely over Luke’s back, under the dress shirt he rucked up out of Luke’s pants, skin to skin, and Luke knows they made a pact about sex in the kitchen when they got this place but if Din keeps grinding against him like that he’s going to break it.

He’s about to say as much when whatever’s on the stove catches fire.

Din swears and skids across the room to slam the lid back on the pot — just in time to keep the fire alarm from going off. He turns the stove off, moves the pot into the sink, and stands over it for a moment looking flustered, like a man just woken up.

Luke, laughing, hops down from the counter.

“Alright,” he says, and tugs at Din’s arm. “Crisis averted. Time to do your marital duty.”

Din’s recovered enough to raise his eyebrows. “My marital duty?”

“Yeah. Fucking your husband until he can’t remember his own name.”

Din’s eyes — amused until a moment ago — turn dark and heavy, and he takes Luke’s head in one hand, biting into his mouth.

Luke likes to think that neither of them have been remiss in their marital duty, but really he can only speak to Din — who takes a caveman-like joy in leaving hand and mouth-shaped marks all over Luke’s skin, so he can slip his fingers under Luke’s clothes in the kitchen and at the grocery store and on the train out to Greenwich and feel the evidence of his attention, of his claim. Who more than once has called Luke from the back room of the Razor Crest when he knows Luke’s just waking up or just going to bed and made Luke come with nothing more than his voice, low and rough in Luke’s ear, telling him how much he loves touching him, how well Luke takes him, what he’d do to him if only their schedules lined up better. Who just last week let Luke corner him in the bathroom at one of Leia’s barbeques, let Luke sink to his knees and unzip him, bit his own forearm to keep from making a sound as he came hard and fast down Luke’s throat.

Sex with Din is very different from any sex Luke’s had with anyone else, and not just because they’re married, not just because they’re in love, though he’s never been married and never been really in love before.

All the other sex Luke’s had was about people doing things _to_ each other, but with Din it feels like something they’re doing _with_ each other.

This is something they’re doing _with_ each other — stumbling entangled into their bedroom, knocking over a stack of boxes with such helpful labels as ‘CLOTHES’ and ‘MORE CLOTHES,’ laughing. Tumbling onto the unmade bed, Din unbuttoning Luke’s shirt and kissing his way over each inch of bare skin he reveals, Luke, breathless, fingers in the too-long curls of Din’s hair, watching his dark head as he noses over the line of Luke’s happy trail, humming, familiar.

_There you are,_ they say with their hands, with their lips, with their knees and heels digging for purchase on the bed. _You, you, you again. I know you._

It’s been scarcely more than twelve hours since they last made love, fast and quiet and half-asleep when Luke’s alarm went off near midnight, close and humid in the cocoon of white noise from the baby monitor, the windows cracked and the hot July air licking in over their bare skin. The evidence of it — of last night, of the night before, and the night before — is all over their skin: the half-moon nail marks on Din’s back, the livid hickey on the side of Luke’s chest, near his armpit, the fading teeth marks on the curve of Din’s shoulder from almost a week ago, when Din held him up against the wall and fucked him so Luke’s feet didn’t even touch the ground, so all he could hold onto was his husband.

Din presses a chaste, perfunctory kiss to a mark on Luke’s hip, unzips his pants while he noses over his waistband, and freezes.

Luke goes up on his elbows. “What?”

Din looks up at him with a disbelieving grin. “Luke,” he says, slowly. “What are these?”

“Um,” Luke says.

Din tugs his pants down over his hips and down his legs, leaving Luke in his pink, _JUICY, ESQ._ booty shorts.

Luke feels himself turn bright red. “They were a gift,” he hedges.

Din’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “A gift?”

“A gag gift, obviously. I forgot I was wearing them, let me just— “

He starts to shimmy out of them, but he’s stopped by Din’s hands on his hips. He looks at him, bewildered, but Din’s eyes are on the shorts — on Luke in the shorts, and really they don’t leave much to the imagination. “Okay,” Luke says. “I guess I could…leave them on?”

Din’s hands slide down his sides and take great handfuls of his ass, at the same time as he seals his mouth over the head of Luke’s cock through the cheap fabric. _On,_ Luke thinks, as he goes boneless against the pillows. _Definitely on._

Later, when the ruined shorts are churning along in the washer (in-unit washer/dryer!), Din pokes Luke in the back and says, “I thought you wanted to stay awake today.”

Luke grumbles and hides his face in the pillow. Din’s pillow — he’s on Din’s side of the bed.

“Hey.” Din worms an arm underneath him, picks him up so Luke’s closed eyes are bombarded by midday sun. Luke tries to hide his face in his husband’s chest, but Din sinks a hand in his hair and picks his head up, too. “You wanted to do it like jetlag, remember? Don’t let me sleep, you said. Whatever you do, don’t let me sleep.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Luke says, with feeling.

Din smiles, self-satisfied. “We already did that.”

They did, very much, already do that. Luke knits their fingers together and kisses Din’s wedding ring, then slides up his naked body and kisses his mouth. His mustache is scratchy — left beard burn on the insides of Luke’s thighs, so he’ll feel it under his slacks tomorrow — and the skin of his stomach, under Luke’s hand, is slightly tacky, from the washcloth he used to wipe Luke’s come off him, and as Luke kisses him he hums, and Luke feels it rumble up out of Din’s ribcage and through his own. His cock pulses valiantly against Din’s hip, but twice in an hour is about as much as he can go for, so he doesn’t do anything but move his hips, overstimulated and tender, like a raw, happy nerve.

Eventually, they separate, and Din pulls on one of Luke’s t-shirts — Georgetown Inter-Ac softball — over his briefs to shuffle out into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.

Dinner, whatever it was, is unsalvageable, but it’s just about noon so Luke sets about making two boxes of Kraft mac-n-cheese while Din goes back to the bedroom for pants and then goes downstairs to retrieve their son.

They end up with Poe for lunch, too, since his mom doesn’t let him buy the Kraft with Scooby-Doo shapes, and he asks all sorts of unfortunate questions like ‘How’d you get that bruise on your neck?’ and ‘How come if Grogu’s three years old he still talks like a baby?’, which Din handles by asking what cartoons Shara doesn’t let him watch and then letting him watch them in the living room.

“Probably safer than explaining the birds and the bees,” he mutters when he’s back in the kitchen, plastering himself to Luke’s back at the stove.

“Probably,” Luke agrees.

Once Poe leaves, they park Grogu in front of _Wow Wow Wubbzy_ and start unpacking the legion of hallway boxes which they inadvisedly marked ‘MISC.’ when they were moving out of Luke’s place, and Luke limps a little because he can’t help it and pretends it doesn’t make him hot around the collar when he catches Din watching him with that heavy, proprietary look. The first box is mostly Tupperware and sippy cups; the second has the baby björn Din uses when he has to take Grogu to work, a stack of Luke’s old law books — the ones Ben Kenobi passed down to him — and a mobile that Din had told him, once, was the one thing he managed to hold onto all the way through foster care, the last thing he had of his parents.

Luke hangs the mobile carefully in Grogu’s new room, over his crib, and when Din walks past the open door and sees him he only stops for a moment, watching with watery eyes, before he moves on without a word.

At some point in the afternoon, Boba Fett calls, and Din has to pull out the books for the bar — work which he despises doing, so Luke keeps an ear out while Din goes looking in the boxes for his reading glasses, arguing quietly with Boba on the phone, and when he hears that brittle edge start to creep into his husband’s voice, he goes into the kitchen and sits beside him at the table and helps him work through the numbers.

The sun sets. They try to convince Grogu that eating peas and chicken would be in his best interest and also an enriching new experience, but end up capitulating to his demands for mac-n-cheese.

Din pulls open a box marked ‘BOOKS’ and retrieves his stack of pulp westerns, which he likes to read to Grogu before bed. He edits out the racier scenes, hems and haws around every death, but Grogu likes to hear about the horses and the cowboys, cooing at Din with big, wondering eyes — and Luke just likes to hear Din’s voice, laying on his back on the floor amidst Grogu’s toys, which are somehow everywhere already, gazing up at the slowly-spinning mobile.

Grogu’s breaths even out into soft, whistling snores as he falls asleep tucked against his father’s chest.

Din hands the book to Luke, who keeps his finger in the page, and gets up ever-so-carefully to put Grogu down in his crib. He’s still so tiny in Din’s hands. Luke knows that Din feels the same thing he does when he holds their kid — the vulnerability, the fragility. He thinks that’s probably the root cause of the protective parental urge, more than just biology: to hold your child in your hands and know how easy it would be to break them, to know that it’s your responsibility to keep anything like that from ever happening. Their responsibility, as parents.

They stop in the hallway, closing the door softly behind them.

There is, on the surface, nothing that’s particularly important about tonight. They’ve had nights where they were on the same schedule before, nights spent tangled together sleeping in bed. Nothing much has changed.

But this is their apartment. They found it together, co-signed the lease. Moved their things in and painted the walls and baby-proofed the kitchen and argued over how much to spend on a couch. This is _their apartment._ Luke put in for a transfer at work so he could be home when his husband and his son were home, and Din changed his hours at the bar for the same reason.

_With_ each other. They’re doing this with each other — they’ve bound their lives together, deliberately.

As if he can read Luke’s mind, Din steps into his space, easy as anything, and kisses him.

Luke sighs and melts into him, relieved even though he’s not sure what he’s relieved about. Din wraps him up tight, hands not going anywhere, and just holds him, calming him down with short, gentle presses of lips.

Some time later, Luke draws away, eyes still half-closed, and nods. He doesn’t know what he’s nodding about, but Din must.

He draws Luke into the bathroom — with the frog shower curtain and the fuzzy green cover on the toilet lid — and they brush their teeth side-by-side, like little kids bound by the buddy system.

In the dark of their bedroom, they rearrange the covers into some semblance of order and slide into bed. Luke’s afraid for a moment that they’re going to stay on their own sides, with space between them — but the irrational fear doesn’t last long, because Din knows. Of course he knows, of course he reaches across the space and draws Luke to him, until Luke gets with the program and reaches for him, too.

They wrap each other up like they did in the hall, not going anywhere, not even when Luke throws a leg over Din’s hip, wanting to get closer. The air is dark, and cool, and soporific. Luke hasn’t slept in a long time.

Din kisses his forehead, right between his eyebrows.

Luke tilts his face up and kisses the stubbly bottom of Din’s chin. “I love you,” he murmurs.

It’s not the first time he’s said it. It won’t be the last.

And it’s not the first time Din slides down the pillows so they’re face to face, draws him into a long, closed-mouth kiss, and murmurs against his lips, “I love you, too.” And it won’t be the last, either.

In the morning, Luke will get up with the baby, will shuffle around the kitchen in Din’s robe nursing a cup of coffee and test out a legal defense for one of his clients while Grogu watches wide-eyed from his high chair, _Your Honor, the prosecution is using the threat of deportation to blackmail — pop! — the witness into testifying,_ Grogu jumping and laughing in delight every time he throws in a ‘pop!’ And Din will wake up grumpy to another phone call from Boba Fett, and Luke will tease him about his reading glasses and drop a kiss on his head and balance Grogu on his hip while he spells out DADDY with the magnets on the fridge — magnets he has to pick up off the floor next to the fridge. And they’ll drop Grogu off with Chewie and Maz, and they’ll both go to work, and the rest of the world will come flooding back in.

But here, now, they only sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> andthepeople.tumblr.com


End file.
